Congratulations! A woman of child-bearing age has not only given birth to a baby, but has actually helped give it a name! (maybe) Congratulations!
Here’s my two-pence worth on the significance of ‘George’ as a 21st century name for the latest incumbent king (via News Genius)
Interesting that Will and Kate, the most modern of monarchs, feel compelled to reach back into the back back of their patriarchal history to cement royal ideology, in a name that pays serious homage to the institution as a whole. In many ways, this ‘choice’ of name can be read as a political affirmation of the royal family. It roots the incumbent king (and his heir) in a firm context and kind of divorces them all from the modern world.
The extreme LACK of imagination and controversy surrounding the name George speaks volumes as to the current position of the monarchy and its (instinctive?) attempts to preserve itself. One wonders what the news would currently look like if Kate and Wills had insisted on calling their boy Malik. Or Kendrick. Or Jon-Jon. Or Charles. Hm.
And finally, as a special gift to the baby boy, who, like all infant humans, has not a single clue about the identity straitjacket being foisted upon him, I present a poem: ‘Unwanted Gifts’. Written a while ago, but fitting, I think for baby George.
do not Think for just a second that you are above tradition:
you are Doing what was done before you came into existence.
you are Treading through the halls and all your pauses or decisions
are a Momentary flaw along a line of much precision.
all your Transitory tangents are a blip along the surface
that is Hardened, hewed and smoothed by accident (perhaps on purpose)
and your Plans have all been mapped and all your maps have all been charted
and your Charts have all been planted long before you even started.
do not Think that you are drifting; there are undertows and currents,
dormant Forces hard at work insisting that you do not plummet
Into personal abyss. Your solipsism is abhorrent
In the face of what was lived, your solipsism cannot flourish.
if you Have a moral code, it was imposed by those before you
(meaning Those who came before or those you know who do not know you)
and the Clothes in which you clothe your nakedness have all been chosen
so the Choices you enjoy will not promote you or console you.
you are Running on the trammels – pushed or pulled by pumping pistons
and the Freedom you imagine hardly grants an intermission.
you can Ask for something different, you can park your inhibitions,
but you Start with no permissions and you harbour inhibitions.
what your Father’s mother’s father started lasts: it can’t diminish
and his Laughter lasts regardless of the parts you seek to finish.
you can Leave and you can change and you can chop and you can squeeze
but same Will still remain the same because you are what you believe.
beLieving in yourself is dangerous, you will agree.
the preserVation of the leaf is confirmation of the tree.
so we should Burn these feeble branches; they have grown, so let them be
and yes, we May have started planted but who says we can’t be free?
every Root is just a route to something definite before us
and the Only way the past can prosper is if it implores us:
pleads and Begs for our compliance. Reaching, seeking to define us,
peeking From its crumbling coffin, coughing, weak with creaking violence.
who’s to Say that our connection to the past is hard and fast?
don’t Believe in the reflection when you feel the shards of glass.
be an Echo. Be a shadow’s echo dancing in the dark.
be the Echo letting go, like petals falling from the plant.
be the Piece of furniture created craftily from wood.
be the Monument to art replacing nature where she stood.
be the Dreamer – don’t believe you need to be a person first.
be the Person that you were before your parents saw your birth.
do not Think for just a second that you’re subject to tradition:
every Moment of your life is moulded by your indecision.
you did Not exist before you ever fell into existence
and the Chains you wore are broken
weakened By the words I’ve spoken
just a Note, a fading token
of a gift that has been given.